


Three Words

by rizcriz



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, but not really, quentin as brian pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 13:20:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15413820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: They told him to sleep. That they’d distract his gate keeper, and he could finally get some rest.Maybe they’re all dead.The creature doesn’t like strangers. Then again, maybe they’re on it’s list of enemies. One of those it wishes to punish for imprisoning it, torturing it, abandoning it—whatever the reason.He doubts they’re alive.Maybe that’s why the creature is suddenly kneeling next to the couch, like he’s the prisoner needing comforting, and placing a gentle hand on his elbow. Maybe it knows something he doesn’t. Who these people were to him when he was Quentin. If he ever was Quentin.Maybe they’ve all got it wrong—creature included. Maybe he never was Quentin. A case of magical mistaken identity.But that’s not true.





	Three Words

He’s curled up on the couch when . . . the man? The creature? Monster in handsome man’s clothing? He’s not really sure what to call him. It’s been three weeks of terrifying revelation after terrifying revelation. Magic is apparently real. Evidently, his name isn’t really Brian, he’s not actually a professor, and he promised his life away to look after the creature possessing what was apparently his best friend. 

It’s been a really trying almost month, okay. He’s a little stressed.

Jesus, and he’d thought fucking grading really crappy, last minute, little thought put into them essays was stressful. He’d kill to go back to that. Maybe bumping a couple grades up from failing to just above passing. God, he’d do anything to just open his eyes and find that this has all been a nightmare.

That he hasn’t lost his actual mind for believing some of this might be true. 

That there aren’t six people standing outside, keeping his keeper distracted with games while he finally gets a moment to rest his eyes and disappear.

But that’d be too easy.

And apparently, an easy life his is not. 

And, even more redundantly apparent, is that the six strangers so dutifully (and suddenly) catapulted into his life, are fucking terrible at distracting the spirit of a vengeful 9 year old.

Which is made clear when he hears, “Quentin.” 

It’s more serious, than usual. Less taunting. Perhaps it’s angry at him. Bringing in these strangers. But to be fair, like literally everything else currently happening in his life, that’s not actually his fault.

Try telling that to a 9 year old with no physical or mental rules, though.

He groans, and curls in tighter against himself. He’ll admit the name feels right. Flows, and hits him where Brian never quite felt right. He may get punished for it later. A few new scars to add to those already on his back and arms from the creature isn’t quite the cost he would’ve thought it to be a few weeks ago. So, he squeezes his eyes shut tighter, holds himself as tightly as he can.

He just wants a couple moments.

Maybe just long enough to connect the dots that seem to be interwoven into the tragedy that is the unraveling tale of his life.

“Q.” 

“Go away,” He mutters, the words muffled against the fabric of the couch. If there weren’t a punishment coming before, there certainly is now. The creature doesn’t appreciate disobedience.

Which is really fucked up. Because Br—sorry, _Quentin_ —is considerably older than whatever mental capability the creature possesses and he should be the one in charge here.

Just ask his students. He’s really good at taking charge.

Or they’re just desperate not to fail.

But for this one thing in his life, he’s choosing to be optimistic, damn it. What else has he got going for him? 

Other than immediate pain and misery.

The creature walks across the room. Slower than usual. Like it’s hesitant. It’s almost enough to make him look up. Because, though it’s only been three weeks, he does know it well enough to know this is unusual. To identify that something is not as it should be.

But he’s tired. And sore. And quite frankly, so confused and rattled by the path his life has taken, that he can’t give any less of a damn if he wanted to. 

It says his name again.

And the way it says it. Kind of pained, and broken off. Stuttered, and unsure. _That_ has him opening his eyes.

Because that’s so far unlike the creature he’s come to know that it tilts the world on its axis for probably the fiftieth time since the six strangers came barging into his life, claiming to be his family and that they could help him. The thousandth since he walked into the bookstore three weeks ago and was greeted with fiery eyes and magic vengeful spirits.

He doesn’t move though.

He’s not sure he can.

He might be terrified. 

God, he’s not even sure when he’s scared anymore. 

Is this what a life of magic means? 

What happened to mundane and boring? Why can’t he have that back? Why can’t he remember the feeling of fear, anymore? 

To add to that, why can’t he feel _anything_ anymore? 

Is this what the creatures Quentin was? A broken man, empty and void? 

Why would he want to go back to that? 

Perhaps that’s why their potion isn’t working on him. The ‘memory spell’ handed to him by the woman with angry eyes. He thinks her name is Janet. But she also went by Margie? Margaret? Margo. That’s it. She’d handed it to him with a glare so commanding and fierce, it reminded him of the queens and goddess’ he’d taught his students about. It was impossible to say no to her. 

And yet, her promises came back empty as no recollection of Quentin appeared. 

They told him to sleep. That they’d distract his gate keeper, and he could finally get some rest.

Maybe they’re all dead.

The creature doesn’t like strangers. Then again, maybe they’re on it’s list of enemies. One of those it wishes to punish for imprisoning it, torturing it, abandoning it—whatever the reason.

He doubts they’re alive. 

Maybe that’s why the creature is suddenly kneeling next to the couch, like he’s the prisoner needing comforting, and placing a gentle hand on his elbow. Maybe it knows something he doesn’t. Who these people were to him when he was Quentin. If he ever was Quentin. 

Maybe they’ve all got it wrong—creature included. Maybe he never was Quentin. A case of magical mistaken identity. 

But that’s not true.

Because he feels something. When the creature is turned away, or the fire is dimmed. Something deep in his chest, like a ricocheting pang reflecting past pains. Attempting to remind him of something long forgotten, but so much more important than anything else. But then the fire burns bright, and the feeling is the one to dim. He knows he’s Quentin. But more as an abstract revelation in a late Picasso painting, than as an actual reality for him to face. 

Quentin, if he’s still here, is somewhere so deep inside him, that not even magic can reach. 

Maybe that’s why he feels so empty. 

Or it has more to do with the shell holding the creature. 

Maybe this shell, the one currently so carefully, and kindly holding him, is holding Quentin within it, too. 

“Q,” the creature says again. 

And it’s then, that he realizes.

Alongside this new, and frightening kindness, is the nickname. The creature is playful, but formal. It’s ‘Quentin, my friend’ or just Quentin. There are no nicknames in this new world. His is Quentin Coldwater, and nothing else.

So he lets his neck extend, the muscles relaxing as he finally adjusts to look at the creature.

The creature and his _amber_ eyes.

No fire inside. 

No fire.

No . . . 

“You’re not it,” He says, blunt. The words are slurred, and lack his usual eloquence. But he’s not taught a class in three weeks, and he’s slept maybe twelve hours in as much time. He’s sure he’s only alive because the creature needs him.

Needed? 

Is the creature gone? 

The creature—no. The man. Because there is something new behind those eyes. No childlike glee and wonder. The gaze looking at him is old. Wise. It gazes at him like it knows him more than he can ever dream of knowing himself. 

The hand on his arm, usually so forceful, squeezes gently, like the person operating this body knows exactly what kind of pressure to apply to soothe him. “No, I’m not.” It says, “It’s me, Q.” 

“Me?” 

The lips quirk in a way that seems both so familiar and so anomalous that he nearly stops breathing in his confusion. “Eliot.” It—he, says. 

_Eliot_. 

He tests it on his tongue.

They’d said that name, before realizing. The people outside. His assumed dead, once-friends. Are they once friends? If they remember themselves, and he’s still so lost. They’d said it like he meant something. Like he mattered. Margo had stared up at him with wide eyes that screamed all her hopes and wishes at him, until she realized the reality of their situation. Then her eyes went cold as ice. Like he’d disappointed, or failed, her. Like he’d managed to hurt her. 

Which was unfair. Considering. 

He blinks lazily at this transformed manifestation. 

is the creature dead?

He doesn’t realize he’s said it, until the man— _Eliot_ , he reminds—is shifting onto his knees and shaking his head. “They found a way to move it to a new body,” He says, his voice soft and deep. It lacks the musical lilt the creature applied to every word. It’s easy and somehow familiar. 

It’s _jarring_.

Because there’s a revelation, as the man leans in, and presses his forehead to Br—Quentin’s. He’s Quentin, damn it. He needs to stop referring to himself as the person he never was. 

He feels _safe_. 

His eyes slide shut. “I don't—“

“He’s not going to hurt you anymore, Q,” Eliot says, softer even still, his hand moving to wrap wholey around Quentin’s—yes!—elbow. His thumb presses up against his pulse point there. “And we’re going to find out why you can’t remember.” 

“Remember,” Quentin breathes, nodding, but not too much, because this warmth is so new. But so recognizable that he can’t bear to let their skin separate at the points they’re touching. What is he supposed to be remembering? Eliot’s here. Nothing else matters.

His eyes snap open. Jaw goes slack. 

“Sleep, Q.” 

Perhaps it’s the ease of it. 

The way the nickname snaps reality as it bends and twists everything around it. Forces his world into perspective. 

That it.

Just.

_Appears_.

Not everything. Not even close.

But three words.

Three agonizingly simple words.

Oh. 

It’s the reflection clanging around in his chest, bouncing around as he makes eye contact with the amber again. It’s the void, finding itself, and wilting in, like a black hole has suddenly appeared to eat up all the emptiness. Like his innards are galaxies, and Eliot is the life waiting to take up that space. 

“Q?”

He licks his lips.

He’s Quentin. 

He knows that. 

Feels it in the way Eliot’s watching him. In the soft caress of his hands on his elbow. The thumb pressing into the pulse point at the crook of his arm. Familiar warmth. A lifetime of love.

A lifetime of love.

Of _Love_. 

That’s…

It’s what he’s been missing. Even before the creature stole him away in broad daylight. Before he became a professor. Before everything. As far back as he can remember, he knows it now, knows it more than he’s sure he’s ever known anything—

This is what was taken from him. 

Not his name. Not his identity. 

Not his _life_.

He pulls his arm out from under him, reaching up to cup Eliot’s face. “ _You_.” 

Eliot quirks an eyebrow. “Me.” It’s question and a statement. Like he’s not sure what to think. And Quentin can’t blame him.

He doesn’t even know who he is, not really. 

He just feels it.

Feels a connection that can’t be severed or explained. 

“You,” he repeats. Because what else can he say? 

Eliot leans into his touch, closing his eyes. And Quentin aches for the amber. Aches for proof that the creature is gone. That this person in front of him is _his_. 

His, _what_?

“Are you remembering?” Eliot asks, without opening his eyes. 

Maybe he’s scared, too.

Is that this feeling? His heart pounding in his chest, and the blood suddenly rushing through his ears loud as waterfalls. Angry as thunderstorms. Fire and fury in his blood. In his heart. 

“I don’t—I think. No.” 

“That’s okay.” 

And it sounds genuine. Like he hadn’t expected any better. 

“But—“ Quentin cuts himself off, swallowing thickly and brushing his thumb over the skin of Eliot’s cheekbones. 

Eliot waits a beat. Quentin doesn’t continue, so he opens his eyes. “But?” And Quentin's rewarded again with that soft amber.

“I know.” 

“What?” He could be wrong. He’s wrong about a lot of things. Just ask his students. He’s not a great professor. “Come on, professor,” Eliot says, tone teasing, “What is it?”

“I love you.” 

“Oh.” 

Quentin blinks. “Is that not—“ 

“No, it is.” 

“But?” 

Eliot inhales, shakily, like this is a revelation as much of an inevitability. “It’s more . . .” He trails off, furrowing his brow. “Of an _unspoken_ thing.” 

“That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.” He pauses, before nodding and adding, “And three weeks ago I was a professor of art and history.” 

“Somebody didn’t think their shitty cover story through.” 

“Why—“ 

Eliot squeezes his arm again. “No,” He says, shaking his head slightly, “We don’t need to get into everything that happened. We need to get you a drink, a hot bath, and for Julia to use some quick healing spells on your back.” 

“How do you . . .” He trails off as Eliot makes a face. “Were you—“ 

“We can bond over our shared trauma later.” 

“But—“ 

“I need to reintroduce you to our favorite people. And Todd.” 

“Todd?” 

“He’s kind of useless, but he somehow found everyone, so we have to be civil.” He doesn't sound pleased by the idea.

“I don’t—“ 

“You will.” 

Eliot finally pulls away from him and stands up. And Quentin’s body goes cold. Like he’s lost something important. But then Eliot holds his hand out for him, wiggling his fingers expectantly until Quentin gets the point and grabs on. He laces their fingers together, and stares down at them for a long moment.

“For the record,” He says, glancing up to lock eyes with Quentin. “I love you, too.” He nods, once, like the conversation is over, and leads them out of the house. 

He still doesn’t recognize the people outside. But something warm, different from the warmth emanating from Eliot’s presence, bursts through his chest, and he knows.

He knows it won’t be long until he remembers them.

Until he remembers himself, too.

  



End file.
